And the Day Turned Cold
by StormsBreadth
Summary: The story of what happened in III1, told from the perspective of Benvolio's little sister. The main character is original, but they don't appear to have that option for this. T for possible violence.


**The Day Turned Cold**

Who am I? My name is Violetta Montague, sister to Benvolio. I am fifteen years of ages, and reside in the fair city of Verona. Thus far, I am unmarried, and it seems I shall remain that way. I feel, somehow, as though there is a curse upon me, a curse that all who I love must fall victim to the Reaper that is death. I know, perhaps, that many would say I am foolish, but this is true; just a year ago, my sister, Celestina, fell victim to the plagues that often sweep through this town. Even more recently, a lover of mine, Giuliano, was murdered by those vile dogs that call themselves the House of Capulet.

This day hath, only served to double my conviction of this fact. But it started as well as any morn might wish too; in beauty. On such a day, I would wish that I were married to nought but a cool breeze, of the sort to mar the heat of the sun. All colours seemed far brighter, contrasts greater; the leaves and grass were as green as any, and the sky shone over my head as though someone had taken a polish to it. The orange bricks of the cool houses seemed, at once, utterly distinct from each other, and completely the same, blurring in to on. The air was heavy with the scent of sickly flowers, cut before dawn and arranged into bouquets beside the stalls of multiple street vendors.

My brother, too, was about. He is three years my elder; eighteen, as of this new month. Yet, he often chooses to act far older than me. Not as though he, himself, were sixty; more as though I had stopped growing at ten. Fie! I have grown another five years since then! I may act as an adult, may experience all those things which adults feel upon a regular basis. I, too, do love! Or did, at least, at that time.

And the object of my love? On that day, by happy coincidence, he was there. He did laugh, and jest, in the way that he did. And, in that same way, he did turn my mind - normally, I do declare, as stoic as a rock - into that of a child, or one befuddled by drink. One Mercutio, friend to my brother, friend to my cousin. Friend, indeed, of most of the Montague clan. Thus far, though, I feel he hath yet to notice me as more than a child. But I may try, may I not?

'Good morrow to thee, my brother, my friend!' I have been told it is unladylike to shout, and many times over. Therefore, I did not shout. I _called_, and waved my 'kerchief about like a token from a lady of old. I feel certain that I looked quite well, for my brother looked disapproving, and the object of my love looked amused.

'Good morrow to thee, thou young blossomed-flower!' Mercutio called back to me, and I felt myself to blush. I hoped, and very much so, that he was referring to the blooming time of violets, they coming early in the year, though, at the same time, I felt that he was referring to something else entirely. Thinking that, though, I felt a shadow of hope; the flower joke would mean, for certain, that he did know my name! Or, at least, I hoped it did.

'Violetta!' That, of course, was my brother. I turned to him, looking as demure as I could. 'Wherefore art thou about?' he asked - nay, _demanded _- of me. This, of course, did not make me well disposed to tell him all about my business, so instead I merely smiled at him.

'Why, wouldst thou have me stay inside all the time, as married to my seat as a dead man is to his grave? Thou canst not stop me, if I want to walk about the town, I shall, and it shall be no business of thine.' I replied, attempting to maintain handle on decorum and, hopefully, present a decent wit about me. There were probably further words I could have included to show myself to be their equal, ones which are not, often, included in polite speech, and fall from others lips as easily as Italian does from mine, but I did not. Vulgarity is, perhaps, not my friend.

Of course though, being as he was, my brother chose not to grace me with an answer. Instead, he turned back to face Mercutio, inviting him to take shelter from the heat of the day and the hungry swords of the Capulets. Mercutio, who had been looking at me, turned to him, mocking my brother as he surely deserved to be mocked. They had apparently moved on to others things, and chose to pay me no mind.

For sake of appearing to be as mature as they, I, too, chose to pay mind to things other than present company. Over to my left, and by a stall selling , a dove drew my eye. It was pecking at the ground, no doubt searching for crumbs. Its neck-feathers were not grey, like the rest of its body; rather, they shone in a spectrum of incandescent pinks and greens. I found myself laughing – quietly, it must be said – at it's antics.

Behind me, I could still hear my brother and friend conversing. They spoke of little of import, only idle chatter to while away the time. Mercutio was talking to my brother; making fun out of the way he choses to pick quarrels with others for reasons of little import. For once, I found myself wishing to defend my brother; true, he was sometimes rather prone to argument. But, surely, he was not quite so bad as that!

'And if I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee-simple of my life for an hour and a quarter,' came my brother's retort. I was not sure, entirely, what he meant by that; I did gather it to mean that he would lose ownership of himself, but was otherwise unclear. This playing of words does always seem to twist my head.

Being himself though, my beloved did take occasion to mock my brother, in which act I was thoroughly on his side. Although, as I have mentioned before, I was not clear in the entirety of his meaning. By some grace of fortune, however, I was saved from further use of misunderstandable words by an aside glance from my brother, which led to a furrowing of his brows.

'By my head,' he said in an undertone, 'here come the Capulets.' I found my own head turning to where he had looked. Indeed, his observation had proved to be correct; I saw Tybalt pass into the square, accompanied by his men, hand upon his sword hilt.

'By my heel,' Mercutio replied, with nary a glance. 'I care not.' I envy his quick speech and easy confidence. It was not Mercutio I was especially concerned with though; for the first time in a while, Benvolio deigned notice me.

'Begone, thou!' he told me quickly, making motions with his hands to further emphasise his point. I felt most put out; why should they be allowed to do as they please, while I must run and hide like an afearèd lamb?

Yet, I did see sense in his words, hate them though I did, and so I chose to follow his orders. Though, being, as it was, a matter of _choice, _I did not follow them completely, and instead replaced myself a safe distance away from where I knew there would soon be spilt blood.

Tybalt did choose to approach my associates, requesting to speak with them, condescending upon them in the sly tone he is apt to follow. Mercutio, of course, would accept none of his wiles, instead choosing to twist his words in upon themselves, revealing their true meaning to the world. It truly did amuse me – and, indeed, most of the watchers in the square – to hear Mercutio's witty banter, as Tybalt did try feebly to speak.

My brother, however, did choose to act the poor-john, interrupting what was otherwise a most amusing spectacle. He informed Mercutio of the indecency of making such a show, in a place where it may be seen. One could but _hear_ all of the rollings of eyes at this statement.

It was at this moment, however, that a man much beloved of our house did choose to make an appearance. Romeo, a cousin of mine, and lover close friend unto Mercutio. He did notice me when passing by, and turned about to face me.

'What fray be this?' he asked, his eyebrows knitting and his eyes clouding over. I feel a certain fondness for Romeo; I believe that he is, in many ways, like me. He has good looks, and a certain air about him, an air of quietness and contemplation, of seeing the poetry in all things. And, like me, it seems that all his loves are doomed to fail.

'It is Tybalt,' I replied, 'that hungry chaser of ill will. He hath come forth, demanding word with those whom thou "consort'sts" with.'

'Then chase ill will I'm sure I shall,' he replied with a low voice, stepping away from me and into the main square. Tybalt, of course, did notice him from the mark, pointing out 'his man' to Mercutio, who did not waste a minute to correct him; Romeo is servant unto nobody. In consistency with his earlier turn, Tybalt chose not to acknowledge the correction.

'Romeo, the hate I bare thee can afford no better term than this, -thou art a villain.' I rather thought this to be an unnecessary expenditure of air. I found myself wondering what Tybalt would wish to gain from such a speech; it was directed at nought, and would surely have _come_ to nought, had Romeo not chosen to turn and respond.

When one turns to face an insult, it can normally be expected that something will come of it. Most often, it will be a reaction violent in its nature, with much clanging of swords and steppings of foot. My cousin, however, chose not to incite such a thing, instead turning and looking Tybalt in the eye, gazing upon a straight, level way. There way a pause.

'Tybalt,' he said eventually. 'The reason that I have to love thee doth much excuse the appertaining rage to such a greeting: villain am I none. Therefore farewell; I see thou know'st me not.'

Throughout the square, there was not a sound save silence. It blossomed like a flower, as all eyes trained themselves upon the men, as all minds wondered, as minds are apt to do, what angel of mercy had fallen upon the quarrelling families. It was a moment of hope, though one dispelled as soon as those in the square took note of what did happen.

The spell was broken first by Tybalt, who turned to call out to Romeo, accusing him of great injury, and demanding that he turn to fight. The first sword was drawn, the bright light of day glinting off the cold metal knife. Romeo turned to Tybalt once more, protesting calmly at these accusations, proclaiming his love for Tybalt and the house of Capulet, refusing yet to draw a blade.

'Tybalt, you rat-catcher!' A good friend indeed was Mercutio, as he cried out to Tybalt, placing his own blade in lieu of his friend's. 'Will you walk?' Tybalt seemed unbalanced by this asking, turning briefly from Romeo to enquire as to what he desired.

'Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives,' Mercutio replied, taking a play from the name of Tybalt, and the man's cunning and his guile. A short speech did follow, one laced with much wit and signs of jest. The crowd was amused, not least including myself, though Tybalt failed to notice, instead refacing his urge for violence onto good Mercutio.

They fought. I felt my eye being drawn fast and held, like a penny to a magnet. A thrust then a lunge; a parry well met. The clash of metal upon metal, as it seemed neither man gained any ground. Tybalt aimed a blow to the head. Mercutio ducked. A slash at the feet. A dozen nicks and cuts, torn clothing, bloodstained floor. A shiver ran through my spine.

Then there was a blur. Romeo was there, between the duellers. He called for a hold. My brother stood by, useless, watching. I could tell… somehow I knew… Something bad was going to happen.

And then it did. We could not see it instantly, or, if we did, only as a flash of steel. A flash one would have missed if one had but blinked. But blink I did not. I knew of the flash, though not what it meant.

'I am hurt!' Mercutio called. Time became as syrup, oozing slow, but trickling too fast.

'A plague…' It was him again. 'On both your houses.'

And the day turned cold.

No-one save me seemed to notice it. They stood about, confused, wondering what had happened, unknowing as to what their reaction should be. I turned, casting about, searching for one who knew, as I did, what had happened.

People spoke; for sure, I could hear them. Their words made no sense though. They were as only noise. Tybalt had gone, though I wished he had not; within me was a desire a-burning as a flame, to tear him asunder for the act of villainy he had but recently committed.

'Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much,' Romeo's voice carried across to me, and my head snapped to look at him. He was wrong, wrong, I knew it he was. It seemed, however, that Mercutio himself knew it not, for he still spoke, still did jest, make light of the scene that led his fall about.

Something snapped in the crowds. It was not just me. _All _knew. All were certain. Romeo's eyes widened, his mouth dropped in horror.

'I thought all for the best…' he trailed off. None could say but more. We knew that this day, that this hour, would be Mercutio's last upon the earth. Time, still, did see to slow, or perhaps it was just the silence. Men had died in this war before. But so clearly? So plain within one's sight? No.

'Help me into some house, Benvolio,' Mercutio cried out, and finally my brother chose to take some from of action, hurrying forwards to proffer a hand to Mercutio. More fool unto him; all could see most clearly that a single hand would not offer much help.

Mercutio did take it, though, still muttering half-made curses upon our houses and his soul. Him and Benvolio did make their way through the crowd, each step so slow as a schoolboy to his books. Romeo still stood within the square, and did stare, distractedly, at nought. I could see that his lips moved; what sounds they did make, I knew not.

'Violetta!' my brother called, as he had passed by my way. I did turn to face him, and met his gaze of irritance with a most level one of my own. 'I told'st thou begon!'

'And as thou should'st be glad I did not' I retorted. 'For here doth lie Mercutio, and thou could'st not manage him alone!'

'Manage him fine I could.'

'If so thou believes.' I hoped so desperately that my display of disinterest would inter him into the seeing of good sense, and so it did.

'Will thou not present him good care?' he asked, a note of desperation having finally crept into his voice. My head, I did bow, as I spoke with an undertone that I should, upon the grave where our father had rested these past five years. And my brother did leave, left me entirely, and returned to the scene where Romeo still did stand.

'A plague...' Mercutio groaned, as I shook my head.

'A plague thou sayest?' I murmured. 'A plague upon thyself, for wishing to leave this world that hath so long been mother to thee. A plague, indeed! Do not die! Thou must not die!'

But I knew that he would; his heartbeat, warm and life-full, was slowing already. And there was nought that I could do, save hold him and hope, though for what I did not know. His hand twitched, dispiritedly attempting movement, reaching out to touch, though I knew not what. So, indeed, I took it, lest he may have further injured his gracious self, so that he may have known comfort in the touch of a woman.

'Thy soul shall fly freely to heaven,' I breathed, as his breathing did slow until, finally, it stopped. Tears grew in my eyes; hopeless tears, for I knew there was nothing to be done, no will to be gained. His eyes had shut; if not for the wound, and indeed the cliché, he could surely have been sleeping.

There I sat for a while, looking upon the face of the latest gentleman to fall victim to the vile curse. I knew not what happened, heard only dimly the cries of a battle and the tempers of the steel. Perhaps I should have made more note, for when I finally did look up, the fiery Tybalt lay dead upon the ground, and in no maiden's arms.

My brother – regaining, at least, some modicum of sense – was advising Romeo to leave, to be gone. I am sure that Romeo saw the wisdom behind these words, for he turned about and left – ran, indeed – leaving the square through a northerly corner. Short after him was a man of the Prince's house, demanding to know the location of Mercutio's killer. Benvolio showed him the stony ground on which Tybalt lay, and the man seemed not impressed.

'I charge thee in the prince's name, obey.' He ordered, and my brother did nought but nod. Good sense he have gained indeed!

There was nowhere, however, that my brother needed to go, for at that moment, my Lord you, the prince did come, accompanied by my good uncle, and by the family of Capulet, whose nephew lay but five minutes slain.

The rest, my Lord, I am sure that you know.


End file.
